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Prince Charming
AUTHOR: The Corruptor
“You had a crush on Prince Charming!”
“Really? Prince Charming?”
“Not just any Prince Charming. The one from Sleeping Beauty.”
“Because he could dance…”
“…Yes.”
Tristan could dance. She knew, though she had never seen him dance before. Never seen him dance with a girl to a fast song. Never seen him dance with his arms wrapped around a girl to a slow song. Never seen him dance by himself or in a group. Never even seen him move his feet to the beat of any music. The only two opportunities she could have seen him dance were at the winter formal and Madeline’s party. Both times, he had been forlorn, upset, and had not wanted to dance. He might have been inclined to dance at the party, but his date hadn’t wanted to with him. And even though she had never witnessed him dancing, didn’t know whether he would embarrass himself doing it, she instinctively knew that he could. Wasn’t averse to it. Had an affinity to the activity. Had probably been taught how since he could walk. Was, in fact, very good at it. Her Prince Charming could dance. In the movie, he woke up Sleeping Beauty with a gentle kiss, swept her off her feet, and twirled her around. Dancing until the sun came up, eyes locked on each other in a deep unbridled and passionate love. The perfect Disney ending. But her life was far from a Disney plot. Dean could dance. He just never liked to. Would have preferred to do anything -- and everything -- instead of dancing. But he had done it for her. Because she had asked. And Tristan… “You want to dance?” she asked suddenly, turning to him. She surprised even herself with her impulsiveness. It wasn’t that she wanted to dance. Especially in public. Especially with him. It was a sure-fire way to get her name passed around in the circulating chatter, something she tried to steer clear of. But for some reason, knowing Tristan had made her care less about what others said or thought about her. He himself never seemed to care, taking all the gossip revolving around him in stride. And, she had to admit, there were worst people to have her name linked to in the Chilton rumor mill. “What?” he asked, startled. His sleepy eyes still looked half-closed, as if she had just jerked him awake. But just as quickly, he added a genuinely sheepish chuckle at the end of his question. As if the question had come out of nowhere. Which it had. As if she would be the last person he would have expected to want to dance. Which she was. And as if he were the last person she would have asked to dance with her. Which he very well may have been. But he wasn’t above being teased. Or teasing, which by the amused and diverted look on his face, suggested that he would do. And without delay. They were standing in the corner, near the wall, a few yards from a makeshift dance floor. Four months of being friends had found them this way. Cajoled into going to a birthday party of a fellow classmate. Actually, Tristan knew the girl in question, had practically grown up with her, but Rory wasn’t close except for one shared class. History. Still, she was Tristan’s friend now, and by association, would receive all the same invitations as him. The party had promised to be an almost déjà vu experience to the one that her grandmother had thrown for her. Where the number of adults equaled the number of kids there. Where the food smelled funny; the kids had to dress up; the adults talked business; the kids talked absolutely nothing; and the music was supplied by a section of the Connecticut Philharmonic. Rory hadn’t wanted to go, was going to decline, or just not show up. She didn’t think she would feel comfortable in such a stilted environment, and it was sure to bring up painful memories of her own party. But Tristan had prevailed. He had promised to keep away all the people she didn’t want to talk to, swore to take her home if she wanted to leave early, and assured her he would placate her sensitive digestive system by telling her whatever food she was unsure of was chicken. Even if it was suspiciously not chicken. Essentially, and in not so many words, he had promised to be at her beck and call, to provide for her every whim if she would accompany him to the party. He wasn’t planning on bringing a date since there really wasn’t a reason to. Nor was he so inclined to on such an occasion. But he had managed to persuade her to go. To merely keep him company. Because that was what friends did. And he had assured her adamantly that it was not a date, which seemed to appease some part of her that had still been hesitant and suspicious. So there she was. (After all the happy birthday wishes had been doled out. Having been dropped off at the front door by her mother, nearly an hour ago, who had then continued on unaccompanied to their usual Friday night torture session, otherwise known as Dinner With The Gilmores.) Standing in a room where the other kids were huddled in groups, trying to act inconspicuous, and trying desperately to come up with topics of conversation that wouldn’t betray just how bored they really were. What they wanted was a DJ, not a string quartet. And what they wanted was to shed their constrictive clothing for looser and lesser fabrics. They didn’t want to discuss business like the adults; they wanted to engage in mindless fun. And even Rory and Tristan, who found that they had an easy knack for talking about irrelevant things with each other, were bored. Their classmates and friends - friends because Tristan’s friendship with her had gained her many - had wandered over to talk to them, but soon left them alone, realizing that both were just comfortable with standing close to each other in near silence. Rory felt more than at ease gazing at the rest of the people at the party while assured that there was always someone nearby she could turn to at a moment’s notice to relay an astute or even irreverent observation or insight about something she had just witnessed. Tristan, likewise, was more than content to stand there in silence, watching her as she enjoyed herself and taking the opportunity to brand the way she looked and all her mannerisms into his memory for private recall later. He himself had arrived almost ten minutes late, and upon arrival, had been hit with the terrifying thought that she wouldn’t show. But then he had seen her, standing uncomfortably with a group of girls, and all was right. The sweaty palms, the burgeoning panic attack, and the apprehension in the pit of his stomach had miraculously disappeared. And when she had turned and smiled brightly as he entered into the room, everything had become more than right. It could have been perfect. Except they were just friends, and right -- instead of perfect -- would have to do. “Dance. Do you want to dance.” She didn’t ask this time, making it a statement. She didn’t know why she had asked in the first place, or why the idea had occurred to her. She just supposed that she had wanted to see Tristan dance for once, and that this would have been a good opportunity to do so. Or maybe she really was bored out of her mind and dancing with Tristan had actually seemed like a good way to inject some life into the dull party. Or maybe that smelly hors d'oeuvre that she had eaten a half hour ago, which Tristan had assured her with a straight face was chicken when it really wasn’t, had finally caught up to her and had made her psychotic. That had to be the only reason why she would make herself so readily available for humiliation by Tristan. It wasn’t because the idea of having an excuse to be physically close to him -- or to feel his muscular but gentle arms wrapped around her -- appealed to her. It couldn’t possibly be that. They were just friends. Friends didn’t do that. And friends certainly didn’t feel that way towards each other. He didn’t answer for a second, his eyes still half-open, mouth hanging slightly ajar as he smiled amusedly while trying to find the right words to say. Words that didn’t seem to be making their way off his tongue. He was contemplating her, trying to figure her out. Trying to decide if she were being serious or just teasing him. They were friends now, but the closest physical contact they had ever had were the occasional playful nudge, one or two hugs, and that one semi-disastrous kiss. And, of course, the few times he had reached for her hand, seemingly without another thought, though each time had been indelibly imprinted into her mind for some odd reason or other. “Dance?” he echoed, letting the word roll slowly and contemplatively off his tongue, still amused for some reason. It was as if he were trying to think of all the possible ways he could make her miserable with the connotation of that one word, and torture her for actually suggesting they stand anywhere closer than a foot together. “Yeah. You know. Dance. Stand in the middle of the room. Move your feet and legs, and possibly some hand motions, to the rhythm of the music,” she defined, irked by his amusement. He was having fun with her impulsive request and now she was peeved by his boldness. She shouldn’t have been surprised, though. She knew he would behave this way. Expected it. And in a perverse way, she even enjoyed it. Resistance met by equal resistance. It was her game now, not just his, and they had perfected the back and forth of their own unique banter. “You want to dance.” Another statement. He seemed skeptical of her. Suspicious, as if he had just been tested, and a wrong answer could make or break their relationship. She shrugged and turned her attention away from him. If he was going to make fun of her, she could change the subject. “It was just an idea.” She made it sound like she had already lost interest in the idea, and, consequently, in him. “Well, that’s some idea,” he said, laughing. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a girl who would want to dance. In public.” She turned to him, eyes flashing with mock anger. “You don’t think I can dance in public?” she challenged. “No,” he responded quickly, trying to appease her with a charmingly lopsided grin. “I don’t mean that. I’ve seen you dance. You dance beautifully. It’s just that I wouldn’t expect you to want to dance. Here.” He gestured vaguely around them. She didn’t have time to think about what he meant by having seen her dance in public before. Or his comment about her dancing beautifully, though it made her blush. The only time she had danced in front of others was during the winter formal, and it never occurred to her that he might have seen her. She had always assumed that he had been too self-involved with himself and his date to notice her. The implications of the revelation, which he hadn’t even caught, did not so much disturb her as make her curious. But she didn’t have time to think about it just yet since he was looking at her with an expectant half-smirk. “I just thought that the music was pretty, and that it was a shame that no one was dancing. I just didn’t want the song to go to waste,” she mumbled, embarrassed now. For some reason, he could make her self-conscious with a look or a word. She didn’t know why, and she certainly wasn’t going to let him in on the secret. Give him an inch of power, and he would… “So you thought you’d ask me to dance.” His voice interrupted her thoughts. He was very amused. Still contemplating her with his soft blue eyes -- eyes that seemed almost naturally unfocused in their unnaturally intense focus of her. They made her uncomfortable. Made her want to squirm under his gaze. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that he had that kind of power over her especially since they were friends now. Friends weren’t supposed to make other friends feel like that. Weren’t supposed to incite those kinds of feelings in each other. Weren’t supposed to turn each other’s legs to jelly with those kinds of looks. Weren’t supposed to cause goose bumps to spontaneously appear when they touched. Friends were supposed to make each other comfortable and at ease, not all jumpy when they stood too close. When they accidentally brushed up against each other. When they stared a little too long at each other. She knew he would spread the charm thick now if she let it get out of hand. “Forget it,” she muttered, looking away, frowning. She had found that expressing disappointment in him, whether real or not, often prompted him to try to appease her and made him immediately repentant. But not this time. He was not fooled. “No, I’m flattered,” he admitted, half shrugging, as if he received those compliments all the time. As if he had girls asking to dance with him at every opportunity. Which he probably did. But his tone suggested that he still wasn’t taking her seriously. Thought she was cute. Her idea was cute. “Okay. There’s such a thing as having an ego and having an Ego,” she retorted, giving him a look of exasperation. Cute could be so condescending. But he wouldn’t let it go. “So now I have an ego because you asked me to dance.” He quirked an amused brow, needling her. He seemed to find this funny. “Can we drop it, Ego-boy?” she asked, sighing, almost desperate to have him stop teasing her. But he wouldn’t drop it. “You know…” he started off, eyes twinkling mischievously. “In some cultures, dancing is considered an act of foreplay. An aphrodisiac.” The trademark Tristan DuGrey leer was beginning to creep across his full lips. “And in some cultures, your cocky attitude would have gotten you tarred, feathered, and quartered. And your head mounted as a reminder to all men how not to behave when trying to please a woman,” she countered, disdainfully. A perfect brow went up. “Really,” he said, thoughtfully, though his posture told her he was not taking her seriously at all. “Which culture is that?” Rory rocked on her heels and gave him a defiant look. “The Gilmore household.” He grinned, jamming his hands into his pants pockets. Leaning towards her, he gave her a knowing look. “Hey, you’re the one who’s being all Miss Spontaneity tonight. What’s going on, Miss Gilmore? I thought I was too repulsive for you to associate with.” She shrugged nonchalantly. “Well, your presence is a good deterrent for all the other obnoxious rich boys who try to get my attention by coming on too strong.” The corner of his lips curled up into an amused grin. “Yeah, I think I hear the hordes of sexually overactive jerks pounding on the front door right now. Want me to step away for awhile and leave you guys alone?” He wiggled an eyebrow at him, trying to hold back his laugher at the dirty look she gave him. “Do it, and you die,” she threatened, facetiously. He chuckled. “Well, just so you know, I’m really using you as a whore repellent.” He looked away, whistling softly to himself as she tried to determine the meaning behind his statement. She couldn’t. Directing a furrowed brow at him, she shook her head confused. “How would I…” He glanced at her, smiling at her modesty. “Well, you know. They’re all afraid to come near me because they know they can’t compare to your beauty.” He was amused, and loving every minute as her face revealed just how pleased the comment had made her. Rory groaned. “If you had injected some sincerity into your voice, I might have believed you.” “Really?” “No,” she shot down. Tristan pursed his lips and gazed thoughtfully at her for a minute. She had turned her attention to another group across the room, having already forgotten about her proposition. But Tristan hadn’t. “Why would you want to dance with me?” The question was both serious and sincere, posed with genuine curiosity. Rory turned back to him, surprised. His self-deprecating humor regarding his own popularity and good looks had surprised her more than once. She knew he could be arrogant. She knew he had amazing self-confidence. She knew he could be good-natured whenever the disposition suited him. But his self-deprecation had added a new dimension to him. Because before they were friends, she hadn’t thought it possible for him to take himself anything other than seriously. And after they had become friends, she had been pleasantly delighted to discover his self-effacing humor. Or any humor whatsoever. “Why wouldn’t I? Every other girl wants to,” she said simply. But her tone suggested that she was mocking him. Tit for tat. “But that’s not you. That’s never been you. Why do you want to dance with me?” he insisted. She placed her hands on her hips and gave him a look. “Because I’m a sado-masochist. That’s why.” He grinned to himself. And she wanted to wipe the smirk off his face. “Okay,” he said after a brief pause, as if agreeing. He looked away, pretending to be bored with the conversation. As if he hadn’t spent the past few minutes trying to needle her, trying to make her regret extending the offer, and making her feel self-conscious. She rolled her eyes, frowning. She was suspicious at the way he had just let the subject drop because he hardly ever let anything drop when it insured that they would enter into some kind of heated verbal banter. And she was right to suspect him. “I can’t believe I even brought it up. Silly me. Forget it.” He turned back to her, feigning surprise. “So you don’t want to dance with me anymore.” He quirked a brow, as if she were being flighty. “No, not if you’re going to be this way.” “What if I promise not to be… this way,” he asked, seriously. In a moment of irrational fear, it had occurred to him that maybe she was rescinding her offer after all. That maybe he had taken it too far, as he was apt to do. But he couldn’t help it. He needed to know that, despite any and all internal objections she might have had against their seemingly improbable relationship, she wanted his friendship as much as he wanted her, and that he hadn’t forced anything upon her. But even then, with all his insecurities, there was still a teasing lilt to his voice. She hesitated. “I don’t know.” He shrugged nonchalantly, casually. “Because if you want to dance…” She squinted at him, seeing his casually debonair attitude. He was trying to bait her and she knew it. And he knew she would see through him. “You know, there is something seriously wrong with you. Just drop it, okay? Forget I even brought it up.” “No, really. If you want to, then I’ll ask you to dance,” he said quickly, gallantly, refusing to forget. She didn’t like his tone of voice. It was too teasing. As if he would not hesitate to make fun of her if she answered in the affirmative. And because she had been the one to initially ask him, he would most likely not let her live that down if they actually went through with it. “Let it go, Tristan,” she warned, though not at all upset. He grinned like an idiot. He loved the way she said his name. Loved hearing her utter it. Loved the way she could convey her annoyance and exasperation with him in just that one word. And how within that frustration with him, make it sound like she loved it nonetheless. He never realized how much he loved hearing someone say his name until she started doing it. “But only if you want to dance,” he continued, ignoring her plea for him to stop. “I said, let it go.” “So now you don’t want to dance.” He raised a puzzled brow, tilting his head slightly to contemplate her. “Not with you. No.” She frowned, annoyed at his inability to just let things go. His blue eyes twinkled mischievously. “Aren’t you being a little…” “Fickle?” she challenged, eyes flashing. “That’s not what I was going to say…” He gave her a half-objecting pout. “Yes, you were,” she accused, assuredly. He could throw all his puppy charm her way and she was determined not to budge, not to fall for it. This time, anyway. “Was not!” He looked offended. “Were too.” She knew it was feigned. “Was not,” he repeated, haughtily. “What are you? Five?” she asked exasperated, rolling her eyes. He tried again. “No, I was going to say…” “Fickle,” she repeated, steadfast. He tried to think quickly, racking his brain for a word. Any word. And yet, despite his many years of prestigious schooling, and an encyclopedia-sized vocabulary list, he always found himself at a loss for words around her. “No, I was thinking of another word,” he assured her, nonplused. His face fell, knowing that he sounded pathetic. He hadn’t even been able to think of a word. “For fickle,” she chirped, triumphantly. She was enjoying the look on his face. Like he was losing fast and he knew it. “I’ll get you a thesaurus for your birthday, Webster.” “Or maybe obstinate,” he retorted, squinting at her. Finally, a word. Not exactly the one he was going for, but a word nonetheless. “And thanks, but I already have one. It’s called Rory Gilmore, and I’m beginning to think it’s more trouble than it’s worth.” Her eyes widened, ignoring the dig. “You think I’m obstinate?” “Forget it.” He sighed. It could get rather nasty if this conversation continued along this vein. Because if he got into listing her characteristics, she would surely counter with her own list. And he knew that if that happened, everything would end badly for him. Very badly. And he certainly didn’t want to get into an argument with her. Not if there was a distinct possibility that he would not leave unscathed, and she would withhold forgiveness. “Well, you’re being difficult,” she pointed out. “That’s not nice.” He tried to keep the frown on his face, but her use of the word “difficult” to describe him was actually very generous on her part. Considering. Still it was very hard to keep from brightening. He normally gravitated towards a smile when he thought of her or when she was near. “Too bad.” And he was positive she had stuck out her tongue at him. “You couldn’t even come up with another word for fickle. You may as well just bow down to me now and worship me,” she teased. “Well, I’d do that anyway,” he teased back, giving her one of his infamous smirks. Rory rolled her eyes. “Well, now I don’t know whether I should be honored or nauseous,” she replied, sarcastically. “You can’t just change your mind like that, you know,” he insisted, eyes twinkling as he broke out into a soft laugh. “You can’t tell me to worship you and then tell me that my doing so will make you sick. And you can’t ask me to dance and then take it back.” “I can. And I will. And no, Roget, I don’t want to dance,” she informed, though smiling a little. Her tone implied that she did not want to be contradicted. But he was more than willing to do just that. “Well, you must want to for you to have asked,” he pointed out, still ignoring the dirty looks she was throwing at him. “Tristan.” Exasperated. His eyes lit up. “Rory,” he countered, innocently incredulous. Just as exasperated. She was able to hide her smile behind a look of utter exasperation. He vexed her. And perplexed her. And drove her absolutely insane. But then, he would always say her name, either beaming or maddened, and she would be content again. It was amazing what kind of power he had over her by just uttering her name. Her real name. She loved the way it rolled off his tongue. The way he made it sound strangely intimate. The way he loved saying it. Loved calling her and having her respond immediately. It made him smile, and he loved to smile. Around her. Because of her. For her. She sighed. Then reluctantly, almost meekly, knowing she was giving up part of her dignity to do so, she asked again. “Do you want to dance?” She’d berate herself later, in private, for being so weak around him, for wanting to see him happy, pleased. He raised his brow again, this time feigning shock, and she gave a loud exaggerated eye roll at his practiced response. “Rory, are you asking me to dance with you?” he asked, as if he finally understood what she was asking him. As if he hadn’t spent the better part of the last ten minutes making fun of her for asking in the first place. His face was a perfect mask of surprise and delight. She could have asked him to wipe the dirt from the bottom of her shoe and he would have responded in the same tone, making it sound as if he were elated that she was willing to bestow such an unexpected honor on him. He could have won an Oscar with the act. She groaned and sighed. “You’re infuriating,” she announced, taking a step away from him, determined to find someone more reasonable to talk to. Someone who didn’t have a knack for driving her absolutely crazy. He reached out suddenly, grabbing her bare arm and trying to ignore the ripple of electricity that shot up his own arm from the touch. Desperately trying to disregard the jolt of current that had simultaneously stopped and jump-started his heart. Rory glanced up at him quickly, inhaling sharply. She was breathless from his touch, the nerves in her arm still tingly and warm from where his hand had made contact. But she was determined not to let him see how he affected her. “No, wait,” he called out. He quickly moved his hand down her arm and grasped her hand instead. It was a little better, but he could still sense his palms getting warm, feeling the puddle of tingles that lingered in his fingertips from the contact of her skin. “No, I want to dance,” he said, in answer to her confused and questioning gaze. In a voice that sounded suspiciously and genuinely contrite. He averted his eyes, sheepishly, as if embarrassed to sound so eager. “Really?” she squeaked, her breath catching in her throat. It was the only word she managed to get out, but she couldn’t help the surprise and distrust from creeping into it. She could tell that he was serious this time and wasn’t teasing her anymore. And yet, there was still some lingering self-doubt. There was no way she could trust him outright; he had made it clear many times that he loved teasing her. “Flattered?” he teased mercilessly, breaking the moment. He watched, amused, as the cautious but delighted smile faded from her face. He was confident in his power to baffle her as well as delight her, and he loved to do both. She threw him a dirty look. “You wish,” she retorted. He sighed dramatically, as if she were being too simplistic. Too naïve. Too innocent to comprehend the power she held over him. “Yes, really,” he insisted. He reveled in the look of pleasure that spread across her pretty features. Pleasure because of him. From him. “With you,” he added. And he reveled in the look of annoyance that fluttered across her features because he had to get in the last dig. It was so typical of him to want to light her fire after having just pleased her. She rolled her eyes, and he laughed. As if he had been considering dancing with another girl all along. “Well, gee. Thanks, I guess,” she retorted, wryly. But the smile never left her face. He chuckled and led her away from the wall. Only one or two couples were already dancing. It was what had surprised him initially -- Rory suggesting a dance when hardly anyone else was dancing. When they wouldn’t be able to blend in. When he wasn’t even her date. When they were just friends. When doing so would bring much attention and talk about them. He himself didn’t care. He was confident enough not to be concerned about what others thought or said about him. But he knew that Rory was different. Perhaps his own confidence had started to rub off on her. He put one hand on the small of her back; the other simply held her hand. He concentrated on the dance steps, trying to ignore the fragrance of her hair and the gentle mist of her perfume tickling his nose. To do otherwise would have left him vulnerable to the maddening thoughts that her closeness was beginning to produce in his mind. Even though there was still a wide gulf of a few inches - following friendship-approved dance protocols -- separating them, he could feel the warmth radiating from her body. It was almost unbearable. She didn’t know about his internal struggles her innocent dance proposal had generated. She was too busy trying to ignore the thudding of her heart against her chest, the warmth that seemed to spread throughout her body from his touch, and the rumbling in her stomach, blaming them on poor air ventilation and the “chicken” instead. Her eyes darted around the room, anxious to find a focus point that wasn’t Tristan, but only ended up catching a few curious gazes in their direction. Rory, finally realizing what she had started, averted her eyes and blushed in embarrassment as others started to watch them dance.
But she had been right. Tristan could dance. And he danced adroitly.
He
was self-assured in a way that was distinctly him, and he knew exactly
what
he was doing. And even though it was only her second time dancing to a
slow
song, his experience and lead made her comfortable and sure in her own
footing. It was a far different experience from her first dance. Back
then, everything had been new and awkward. But this… this felt right.
It
felt perfect. Like they were no longer Rory and Tristan dancing, but
melded
into one being. Their every move flowed liquidly, as if they knew each
other so well, fit together so completely. Like they belonged. He
glanced
down at her, dipping his head so that his eyes were almost level with
hers.
When she met them, he straightened and her eyes followed his, lost in
the
sea of their blueness. He offered her an endearing smile. One
reserved
only for her. One that assured her that she was doing beautifully. It
encouraged her to continue, and soon, she forgot about the others who
were
watching them. They were no longer important. Only Tristan existed in
her
realm of consciousness now.
I know you… I danced with you once upon a dream… Both danced confidently within each other’s arms. And soon enough, other couples had gravitated towards their makeshift dance floor, pulled in by their magnetic combination. They hadn’t even realized it until the end of the song, when they both glanced around and noticed the company they shared. Glimpsing back at each other, they shared a chuckle and a shy smile. The next song started, and he didn’t even think twice when he pulled her closer to him, bridging the distance that had annoyingly and frustratingly separated them during the last dance. His hand, which had previously held one of hers, trailed lightly down her arm and rested at her waist, his gentle caresses causing shivers to run up and down her spine. Absently, and almost with a mind of their own, her own hands found their way around his neck, dropping lightly at the nape of his neck as her fingers playfully teased strands of his blonde hair. She let out a content sigh and nuzzled her head against his chest, taking in deep intoxicating breaths of him. Manly scents that were uniquely Tristan. He let his face nestle lightly against her hair, his lips near her ear for easy access. He held her almost possessively and protectively in his strong arms, afraid to let go. She didn’t seem to notice, and if she had, she wasn’t about to object. Prince Charming could dance. And he swept an awakened Sleeping Beauty into his arms and twirled her around the dance floor.
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